Words I Never Said | UPDATED DAILY! 🎸⭐️

Chapter Two - August 2023

Inside The Lantern, the lighting is warm and hazy. There's much less of a crowd here and much less noise. I'm sincerely relieved. I settle into a stool at the bar, letting out a breath.

"What can I get you?" The bartender is old and has friendly, crinkly eyes. He doesn't seem concerned about my age.

"A Diet Pepsi, please," I request. I'm not about to test my luck—just being in here feels like a violation. I plan to hydrate, slap a bandaid over my busted heels, and then meet up with my friends. I can't linger.

The pretty boy climbs onto the little stage near the door. He clicks off the microphone, says something to the man who'd been playing piano. Oh god, it was him who'd been singing. Of course it was. He looks just like he sings. He catches my gaze and I spin around, hiding my blush. My face always turns embarrassing shades of pink at the worst times.

The bartender slides me my drink, sparing me from being caught staring. I thank him, taking a sip. My throat feels scratchy from talking over the loud music. And I've been walking and dancing and even running all night... Before I realize it, I've downed most of the soda, and the bartender is offering to bring me another.
My phone dings, and I hope that it's Cami or Grace. But instead of the girls, it's my Dad.

Hope you're having fun and being safe.

My eyes well with tears that I quickly blink away. I miss him a lot. How long has it been since he and Mom left? Maybe a month? I'm about to type back a response when someone sits down beside me.

"Was my song that bad?"

It's the pretty boy. He's gesturing to my face, my tears. For a moment I can only stare at him, open-mouthed. I didn't know God still made boys this lovely. The rapid pace of my heart is like warning bells. I've heard of this happening before, from girls like Cami and Grace. One minute you're totally composed and the next you're head over heels and hopeless. And I can already tell this boy could bring me to my knees if he wanted to. I clear my throat, trying to get a grip.

"No, it was just my dad."

"Not getting along?" He leans forward, studying my face. He has an innocent face that makes him seem lost; like all he needs is someone to take care of him.

"Oh, no. I just miss him."

He nods, like he should have known. The bartender slides a shot towards him, though I never saw him order one. He downs it so quickly that it catches me off guard. He must order here often. And perform here often.

"Why haven't you seen him recently?" he asks, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel.

"He's a therapist," I explain. "Both my parents are traveling corporate therapists, to be more specific. They go to offices all over the country and make people get along. I don't see him much, so I guess I got emotional when he texted."

"I'm an emotional drunk, too." He holds up his empty glass and I laugh a little.

"I'm sober, but I'm glad to make you feel at home."

"This is my home. I'm from PA, though, originally." The bartender is fixing him another glass. He turns to retrieve it. He has blonde eyelashes, I notice. They match his hair, which makes me think of butter, corn-silk, soft duckling feathers. It looks natural, though. Unlike Grace, who has dark roots at her hairline.

"You're a tourist," he accuses.

"Was it that obvious?"

"The boots were a bit much."

"Fair enough," I concede. "They gave me more trouble tonight than they're worth."

I glance at them, sitting on the floor in their crisp, white glory. Little does he know the insides are all bloody. His own shoe choice is a pair of old-school Vans. Practical for walking, which means he's definitely familiar with this scene. I also note his jacket, which is slung over the back of the stool. It's made of worn denim, but the material hints at a sizable price tag. A little patch hides on the front. I peer closer at it—a four-leaf clover.